his sense, that exquisite aroma—subtle, magical. Melmotte’s tame penguin, with its broken leg, its yellow eyes, that seldom spied a live fish nowadays, and useless flippers that never felt the waves, came waddling up to greet a fellow-exile, and assumed a portly, sprawling attitude almost upon Philippe’s feet. But the old man never noticed him—how should he? He was sixty years, and half the world, away. . . .
. . . Outside, all was shining. The early sunshine was bringing out every rich tone of brown and red in the resinous timbers of the old chalet. Inside, the coffee-berries were roasting, roasting. Ah, the good smell! Ah, the first morning freshness! Now he himself, Philippe, le petit Philippe, in his clean blue blouse and wooden shoes, stood dutifully crushing the brown berries in the coffee-mill fastened to the table . . . now, again, his mother bent above him with a shining-bright, long-spouted pot in either dexterous hand, from which the good streams of boiling milk, and real black coffee, velvety yet clear, descended to a perfect union within the handless bowl of green earthenware. And, all the while, the cuckoo calling and calling outside, and the rocky rivulet running down the mountain, merrily, even as he himself would presently run merrily down to school. . . . Ah, the good mother, the old home, the long, long ago! Jumbo, the penguin, tired of inattention, here pecked viciously at Philippe’s foot, and the old man moved absently on up the street.
Here was the Pakarae church-belfry: differently roofed with those red tiles, it was true, and rather squat than lofty, yet in its shape, a bell-hat on
